


HARUSPEX.

by icedmachinery, icemachine



Category: Doom Patrol (TV)
Genre: Dragons, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Metahumans, Nonbinary Character, Original Character-centric, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24786454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icedmachinery/pseuds/icedmachinery, https://archiveofourown.org/users/icemachine/pseuds/icemachine
Summary: ha·rus·pex, noun.(in ancient Rome) a religious official who interpreted omens by inspecting the entrails of sacrificial animals.Mabon Archer is not Mabon Archer. Not yet.They dream of becoming Mabon Archer.
Relationships: Mabon Archer & Devin Daniels
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2
Collections: The Archives of Archer





	1. (ACT I) PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> a reupload. this is mabon's story. the doom patrol will be introduced... Soon!

_1900._

“Where are we going?”

His mother shushes him, soft and quiet. _Shh._ The unspoken: if he talks - if someone _hears_ him - then it’s all over, then his mother goes away and he goes away and - he doesn’t know what happens after that, his mother won’t tell him what will _really_ happen if they hear him, but Vul can read between the lines. It’s not going to be good.

Vul’s earliest memory is running; they’ve been tracking his family for as long as Vul can remember, since he was new to the world and very, very small. He doesn’t actually know who “they” are; this is another thing that his mother won’t tell him. He knows that they are vicious creatures, he has only seen them once, but he knows that they aren’t like him, either - they are pale and monstrous and—

He’s guided downwards, and his mother forces them into a landing; he falls to the ground as she descends to the ground, entirely graceful. Oh. _Oh._ A sudden pain shoots through Vul’s right wing and he can’t help but wail—

oh—

they’re going to hear him—

He looks down. Part of his wing has been torn off, cut by a sharp rock in the grass. Vul looks over to his mother, considers begging for forgiveness - _they’re going to find them - it’s all going to be over—_

“You must be Vul.”

Something walks into his view - it’s one of them, _it’s one of Them, they heard Vul and now they’re going to hurt him and his mother, it’s all his fault, it’s his fault—_

“I’m sorry, mom.”

She laughs, solemn. “Do not be sorry. This man is here to help us.”

Vul has never seen anything like it; he stands on two legs, his two arms are long and rest at his side. There are gray strands of something attached to his head and face. He doesn’t look threatening; he’s standing in front of them, seemingly docile. He is perfectly still, unwilling to make any sudden movements.

“Help us?”

“My name is Niles Caulder,” he says, slow, lest he startle Vul and elicit another wail. “You’re safe now.”

_I am never safe,_ Vul thinks. He says: “What are you?”

“I’m human.”

“Oh.”

  
His mother approaches him, helps him rise from the ground and stand up firm, perfectly balanced, despite the pain. “I love you,” she says - her voice always so _soft -_ and then she turns, flies away, leaves Vul alone in his youth and uncertainty.


	2. back in chains

Mabon Archer is not Mabon Archer. Not yet.

They dream of becoming Mabon Archer. They stare at themselves in the mirror, picking and pinching at every centimeter of their disgusting, disgusting skin. They look out of their bedroom window, yearning for a new life, a life in which kindness can present itself into their life. A spirit of kindness, an extension of a hand into their hand, improving the soul. Extracting them from their pain. Forcibly moving them through time, into a recovery process.

The first part of the story goes like this:

_2011_.

The class bell rings and they jump out of their seat, lunging to the classroom door like a deranged animal, tired of carrying the academic burdens of failing nearly all of their classes. Algebra, biology, and art class. Who fails art class? Who is dumb enough to fail an _art_ class? Apparently, they are. They do everything wrong: they hope, they daydream, they borrow survival from television shows and books and video games to make the suffering subside - even for a moment - even for one small moment of relief. The pain does not go away, but it can be lessened. 

Distractions work. Most of the time. Mabon truly does try to succeed in class, but it is difficult to succeed when you have to hide the bruises on your (disgusting, disgusting) skin, when you have to put makeup over the ring-cut scars on your forehead. It is difficult to succeed when your head is held underwater every night, when you shake at the concept of shaking. It is difficult to succeed when you’re almost the person you want to be, but not quite, never reaching the status of Mabon Archer.

In the real, waking, unbearable world: it’s lunch time and the cafeteria is on the other side of campus; their legs ache and ache, their heart races, as they trek to lunch. Mabon imagines, foolishly, that this is cinematic, a journey to something important and they’re going to save the world, they’re going to be a hero. Heroes save the world, heroes are not fourteen year olds stuck in Ohio, and heroes do not fail art classes; it is safe to say that Mabon can never be a hero. They’re not smart enough, they are weak. As everyone reminds them, they are weak. Their body is weak and their mind is weak and they will never—

and they will never—

Well. They’ll never be strong, but that goes without saying. Maybe one day their weaknesses will lessen, maybe one day they will be able to rise above it with their mind and their body and craft themselves a better existence. That day will not be coming any time soon, though, so they ground themselves in the present location; the sun is beating unbearable, the sky lacks all cloud, the cafeteria is in sight and it’s only been eight minutes. They can do this. They can make it through this day. 

A teacher holds the cafeteria doors open and Mabon slides in with the other students. This is their biology teacher; they don’t want to be noticed, they _can’t_ be noticed, if they are noticed their teacher will say something like _miss Archer meet me after school today_ as he does every time Mabon fails a test and it’s just - not something that can be dealt with right now. Mabon does not have the capacity or ability to deal with anything today. Truthfully, they have never had the ability to deal with stress, but especially not today.

The pizza line winds long, almost flowing through the door. This is, quite often, the only meal that Mabon gets, so they need to get food _fast;_ lunch ends in twenty-nine minutes, twenty-eight…

Mabon inhales. Balls their fists. They walk to the middle of the line, and pick out a student who doesn’t look like they’d beat Mabon up for what they’re about to ask. It can’t hurt to _try,_ can it? The answer, of course, is yes, but Mabon doesn’t care; they’re determined.

“If you let me cut in front of you,” they tell him, retrieving money from their wallet, “I’ll give you twenty bucks.”

The boy they’re so bravely facing laughs for a moment until his facial expression turns to - what is that? Fear? Does he fear Mabon?

“Archer.” A deep, gravel voice. Too close. 

Oh. It’s not Mabon, it could never be Mabon. Mabon is not terrifying; they are too frail, too small and sickly, to ever reach the status of intimidating or anything beyond weak.

“ _Someone’s in trouble,”_ he whispers, and Mabon turns around slowly; their biology teacher stands tall above them in a practical growl. He looks entirely unhinged, entirely angry. He’s smiling wide, all (frighteningly sharp) teeth, and the gesture emits a threat; if Mabon did not know better they would think _hungry,_ would think _dangerous - run - run. Don’t stop running._

Running will only make things worse.

“Hi Mr. Anderson.”

“Did you just try to bribe this young man into letting you cut in line?”

Mabon sighs. “Maybe, but I have a good reason, so just - just let me explain—”

Are they really going to tell their terrifying teacher about - about what _happens?_ If their parents found out they said something—

If their parents found out they said something—

They can’t think about it. It - it _can’t_ happen. If their parents find out - if anyone at school gets even the _slightest_ idea that something is wrong—

It just can’t happen. Mabon doesn’t know what their parents would do if they found out, but it wouldn’t be good. They imagine the pain and the pain and the pain folding in on itself, the ache endless, a mirror world of fear and uncertainty—

Their teacher doesn’t care, anyway. He has never been sympathetic, this man has no _empathy,_ this is a sick man with a sick mind. He would hear about Mabon’s issues and he would smile his threatening, devouring smile again. He’s had an inexplicable grudge against Mabon since day one. 

There is no safety here. There is never any safety.

“You can tell me in after school detention.”

Mabon has never been sentenced to detention. It’s one of the only admirable things about them; they’ve always been a polite student. They keep to themselves, never getting in any trouble. Never speaking out of turn, always hiding within themselves. Staying quiet. Hiding is a survival method. 

This isn’t good; if their parents find out—

It all boils down to _if Mabon’s parents find out._ The phrase is ghastly, haunting them in the back of every thought. If their parents find out, Bad Things will happen. If their parents find out, it’s all over. The fear has made Mabon intelligent, careful, able to cover their tracks and sneak around without being caught, but what happens on the day they make a mistake? What happens on the day someone finds out about their domestic life and tries to involve the police? What happens on the day someone gets a little bit _too_ angry?

Mabon tries to assess the situation; something in them is again screaming _run. Get out of here, go. Leave school, leave this town and go to—_

_Go to—_

_Go to Cloverton._

They shiver, now. It’s as if it appeared in their mind, a large, flashing sign: _Cloverton._ What the _hell_ is Cloverton? Is it a city? Is it a building? Is it even real? Their mind has a habit of making things up to cope, their mind is prone to escapism, so there is a _very_ good chance that Cloverton is a manifestation of Mabon’s desire to _run._ Their desire of safety fuels the mind. It is an unrealistic fantasy, and Cloverton doesn’t really matter - they can deal with that later.

It’s becoming increasingly clear that there’s no way out of this. They’re trapped. There is no choice here: they have to take the detention and just - _deal_ with what happens at home. They’re going to have to call their father and tell him they’ll be home late; they don’t have to say _why._ Unless he asks. Which… he probably will, and lying will also get them nowhere good.

Shit.

There is _truly_ no escape. 

Mabon could run away.

They could, in theory, run away.

They could take their backpack, load it up with water bottles and bagged pretzels and the money they’ve been saving since they were ten, and just run. Where would they go? What would they do? Who could possibly pity someone like Mabon enough to help? They think about running too often, contemplate it while falling asleep & daydreaming about it during classes, but now it’s becoming less of a fantasy and more of a plan.

Mr. Anderson snaps a finger in front of Mabon’s face, forcing them back into the present; they flinch on instinct, terrified of the sound and sudden movement like horrified prey. They _are_ prey, in this moment. He recoils his hands, and the smile remains on his face.

“Sorry,” Mabon says. “I’m sorry.”

_Sorry._ Mabon has uttered _sorry_ an uncountable number of times, but it sounds different now. In this situation it does not feel like a beg flowing from their mouth; instead it sounds like acknowledgement, and maybe that’s enough to stop the situation from further escalation.

“I’m sure you are now.”

He walks away. The smile does not fade. It’s almost inhuman.


	3. a coma in a classroom

Ms. Caley is discussing shading techniques but Mabon cannot find a way to pay attention; instead terror, instead an omnipresent paralyzing fear. Shading techniques don’t matter when there is the blinding Unknown waiting for you at home. They don’t know what their parents are going to do.

School gets out in ten minutes. Mabon will have to inform their father in ten minutes. 

They briefly consider not calling him. They have to weigh the options in their mind:

OPTION ONE:

They don’t call.

Possible outcomes:

  * Their father just doesn’t give a fuck. 
  * He works late and doesn’t notice.



Likely outcomes:

  * He asks why Mabon is home late.
  * When Mabon tells him, he asks why Mabon got detention.
  * When Mabon explains, he gets angry.



OPTION TWO:

They do call.

Possible outcomes:

  * Their father just doesn’t give a fuck.
  * He tells Mabon that they deserve it.



Likely outcomes:

  * He asks why Mabon has detention.
  * When Mabon explains, he gets angry.



  
  


Angry. He’s always angry. He _always_ gets angry. Fuck the options; he’s going to get angry regardless of what Mabon decides to do. Gerald Archer’s natural state is anger; he’s not capable of anything else. 

Well. He _is._ He’s capable of hatred, contempt, resentment. And worse, in the physical world; violence, a sick lack of mercy. In the emotional realm: the sparking of fear, the shrouding of an unnatural and everlasting state of fright around Mabon’s body. They are wrong in one regard; Gerald Archer is indeed capable of many things. None of them, however, are good.

They have seen him in every situation, every emotion. Situations eliciting happiness, situations that make him angry, situations that make the unbreakable Gerald Archer terrified, situations that make the unbreakable Gerald Archer depressed. In every situation, their father is despicable. He has never been kind. Not to Mabon, not to Mabon’s mother, not to their sister—

but that doesn’t matter now, because—

He has never been kind.

Juliet Archer has also never been kind. It’s pitiful; she takes his violence, Mabon _knows_ she hates her husband, knows that she is also scared of him, but she mimics his actions in every way.

She doesn’t hit Mabon. It’s worse than physical abuse.

At least the pain of being hit fades eventually, but hearing your mother call you worthless - a waste of breath - disgusting - sick - manipulative —

_That_ hurts worse than being beaten, because it stays with you. Emotional maltreatment never fades. Mabon looks in the mirror and hears their mother’s voice; _fat, disgusting, ugly. Horrific._ Mabon looks in the mirror and hears their mother fake-retching. Mabon looks in the mirror and pulls at their own skin, presses on their chest, tries to imagine their organs moving and pumping within them. Mabon stops looking in the mirror. 

Ms. Caley is standing in front of Mabon. Oops. They _really_ need to work on paying attention in class. They’re failing art already and they _don’t_ need detention yet again. She’s snapping her fingers in front of Mabon’s face in a similar fashion to Mr. Anderson’s deranged finger snaps from earlier. She’s staring into their eyes and the look on her face is drenched in different ways; it is partial concern, partial anger. Mabon is and always has been a polite student, but today - today must be an _off_ day. They usually aren’t like this. They just aren’t.

  
  


Mabon jumps. Again, at the sight of hands so close to them. It’s a terrifying reminder, just another thing to create flashbacks in their mind, unwanted and unforgiving flashes of pain and hands and fists and bottles and--

hands and fists and bottles and--

legs and hands and body parts and fists and leather belts and beer bottles and martini glasses and —

rainbow-tinted bruises, Mabon knows the healing process, knows how the body heals its injuries, knows its twists and turns, knows the way it was designed by God or evolution for survival, only survival. Humans are strong beings. Humanity is strong, the human body is versatile.

Mabon is versatile but—

hands and fists and bottles and--

legs and hands and body parts and fists and leather belts and beer bottles and martini glasses and —

hands and fists —

shards of glass and —

broken walls and —

guns hidden in drawers and -

Mabon shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes in their seat shakes in their seat shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes shakes 

S H A K E S

Mabon _shakes_ and the room is suddenly so warm, so unbearably _warm_ and sweltering, and their heart is racing - racing - racingracingracing racing racing - beating so fast that they can feel those organs they imagine in the mirror working too fast, maybe it’ll kill them, maybe they’ll die here in this art classroom and they just won’t have to 

deal

with

it 

anymore. If the anxiety kills them, if their heart gives out because of the stress, if it finally finally ends--

Mabon is not this lucky. Only death could fix their problems, and they have considered it before, ending their own life to shut out the trauma, stitch up the wounds of living, but it all boils down to the unrelenting fear again. Mabon is afraid of death. Isn’t everyone? Death as the desirable outcome; if a car hit Mabon while they were walking home from school, they wouldn’t care, they would welcome it, but they’re not going to walk into traffic.

Ms. Caley is glaring in their direction. Mabon is having a panic attack, and she doesn’t care. No one at this school cares. There is not a single person in this high school that is capable of empathy.

“Do I need to send you to the nurse?”

“No,” Mabon says, voice wavering, body still trembling. “I can’t go. I have de---um. I have somewhere to be after school.”

“You’re distracting the class. Can you please at least try to calm down?”

“Sorry.”

Mabon pulls the hood of their jacket over their head, tries to shrink down out of sight as much as possible. Okay. They’re okay. Everything is fine. No one is going to hurt them - physically - here. They’re safe for now.

They’re _safe._

—

The safety ends when class ends and Mabon is forced to make the decision. It ultimately ends up here: what will make their father _less_ angry? Coming home late with no explanation for it, or getting detention?

Mabon knows him. He’ll be more pissed if Mabon doesn’t tell him. They think about it - his reaction to the detention news will be predictable, but his reaction to Mabon refusing to tell him and coming home late would be unpredictable. At this point, it’s all about predictability; knowing what will happen makes it easier, not knowing brings _trouble._ Their father is, at his core, an unpredictable man, but Mabon knows him well enough to understand what sets him off most of the time.

They dial his number into their cell phone. It rings three times until he answers, and his raspy voice makes their heart palpitate. It’s sick. This is so sick.

“Hi, dad.”

“What’s up?”

“I’m, um… I’m gonna be home late today.”

“Why?”

They can feel their heart

racing

racing

racing

racing

racing

racingracingracingracing

again.

“Well…”

Oh, they’re shaking again. The panic is inescapable.

“Out with it. I don’t have all day.”

“I got detention.”

He’s silent for quite a while; this only makes Mabon’s fear rise. Their terror overflows through their body, and it’s going to spill out—

“We’ll talk about this at home. Call me when you get out.”

“Dad?”

Silence. Mabon looks at their phone; the call is over.

\---

  
  
  
  


There are two other people in the room, when Mabon arrives.

One of them is scribbling something furiously in his binder - on the side of it, Mabon can read _DEVIN DANIELS, AP ENGLISH 1-2._ The other has four bottles of neon nail polish on her desk and is painting her nails. Mr. Anderson is reading a newspaper. No one seems to notice that Mabon has entered, and it sends a breath of relief through Mabon’s lungs, into the air. It’s comforting when they aren’t noticed; it removes the possibility of escalation, prevents the engraving of more trauma. It’s always more trauma. There is _always_ something to dig into them and implant pain… even at fourteen years old, Mabon Archer knows that the world is not a good place. They are a child; they should be having fun, not having panic attacks in classrooms.

They sit down in the very back of the room, and from this angle Mabon can see what the boy - Devin - is drawing: a mummy and a robot, and they’re… holding hands? Part of it feels familiar, like they’ve seen it before, but—

This kid is odd.

He seems to notice Mabon staring - _notices Mabon -_ and turns to them, growling. “Stop looking at me. You don’t need to know what I’m drawing.”

Mabon fiddles with the strings of their hoodie, pulls the hood tighter. How can they hide themselves further? What can they possibly _do_ to fix this situation, to make themselves fade into the background? 

“Sorry,” they say. Mabon slides down in the desk chair, down, away from sight, then adds quietly, “it was really good, though.”

Devin’s demeanor softens instantly. It’s like no one has ever complimented him before. He even - he even _smiles_ at them, slight but prominent, and it’s - it’s - it is a kindness that Mabon has never known. 

“Thanks, I guess,” he says. “They’re from a comic book I really like.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah.” He pauses. “I’ve never seen you before. Freshman?”

_That’s because I don’t talk to anyone,_ Mabon thinks. _Because I am on my own. Because all I have is myself._

“I’m a freshman.”

“Same. What middle school did you go to?”

“Hollow Winds.”

“I went there too, but I don’t remember you… well, that’s okay. I’m Devin.”

“Mabon.”

Shit.

It slips out of their mouth without thought; Mabon isn’t their legal name, _no one knows Mabon_ besides Mabon themselves. Mabon is a fantasy, a person who will never truly exist, only resting in the mind. Now Devin knows Mabon, and Mabon doesn’t know what to do. Before Mabon can do _anything,_ the conversation continues like normal. Mr. Anderson is now on his phone; he didn’t notice. Maybe things will be okay.

Maybe Mabon can be Mabon.

“What’d they get you for?”

“What?”

“I mean what did you do? Why are you here?”

“Oh. Uh…” Mabon looks away, but sits up in their seat. “It’s, um…”

“Hey, I’m not gonna judge.”

Mabon’s sigh is deep and - probably too loud, most likely gives off the wrong impression, _but._ It doesn’t matter. “I, um, tried to bribe a kid to let me cut in front of him at lunch.”

“Oh, that’s all? Jeez.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Nah, you didn’t.” He laughs. “It’s just crazy. They’ll give you detention for breathing here.”

Mabon nods. “Yeah. Wait, why are _you_ here?”

“I dropped my history textbook in a sink full of water.”

“Why?”

“Because I fucking hate American history. It's so depressing.”

Something inside of Mabon now screams _danger. Run. Run._ It’s always run. Devin is everything that Mabon isn’t; loud, uncaring, unapologetic. And it’s… captivating, somehow. 

“Makes sense. History sucks.”

“Oh, totally.” 

He flips the page in his notebook, and begins drawing again. The conversation seems to be over, so Mabon puts their head back against the wall and tries to sleep the hour away…

…

…

…

Someone is pounding on the door, and Mabon’s heart just - it just can’t catch a _break,_ can it? (They think back to death—

their heart giving out and they die right here, in this classroom, the trauma ending for good—)

The door is forced open, the handle of it smashing a dent into the wall when it hits, and - and - _and their father bursts through the door,_ shirtless with a beer bottle in his hand, visibly furious. His face turns an almost comical shade of red as he approaches Mabon, kicking away every desk that obstructs his path.

“What are you doing here?” Mabon asks, standing up - _why did they stand up -_

“What did you _do,_ Mabon?”

They look around for Mr. Anderson, but he’s gone. Nail Polish Girl is also nowhere to be found. It’s just Mabon, Devin, and a fuming Gerald Archer. 

“It’s not really that big of a deal—”

“Did you tell someone?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I swear, I didn’t—”

But he’s grabbing Mabon by their jacket. He stands tall at 6’5, and Mabon is barely five feet tall - it’s uncomfortable, their jacket rises, revealing the skin of their stomach - _oh fuck - where did the bruises go -_

“Tell me what you d—”

His face falls, all expression eliminated, and slowly his grip loosens on them —

and -

and he -

and he falls, head hitting the floor - there’s blood - _oh god there’s so much blood -_

when Mabon looks up, Devin is standing in front of them holding a bloody pair of scissors—

…

…

…

…

  
  


….

“Mabon. Mabon, hey.”

Oh. Mabon opens their eyes; it was a dream, and no, their father is not dead on their classroom floor. They feel disappointment begin to boil within. Their father is not dead, and they are not dead, and now they have to go home and _deal with it._

But Devin’s hand is on their shoulder, so for now, in this moment, the pain fades.

“Detention’s over,” he says, voice soft, kind. “Need a ride home?”

“My house is really close to here, so no, but… thanks.”

Devin is studying them, staring _hard._ Mabon must look terrified.

“You okay?”

“Bad dream.”

_Fantasy._ But.

“Sorry. Hey, see you tomorrow.” 

After Devin leaves, Mabon reaches down to grab their backpack, and notices it:

On their desk, a drawing of Mabon in a cartoonish style. Underneath it - a phone number.


	4. lament

They try not to think about Devin. They really, truly do. 

No one has _ever_ paid attention to Mabon like this - in a positive way, a situation colored in kindness instead of contempt. It is too odd, too unfamiliar. Maybe he was lying. Maybe he’ll laugh if Mabon texts him, and tell them it was all a prank, that Mabon really _is_ too disgusting to be cared for.

Somehow, though, Mabon has a feeling that Devin was genuine in his intentions. That is the most terrifying aspect of this; Mabon doesn’t know how to handle sincerity. The paranoia they’ve grown up with simply doesn’t allow room for it in the mind. It’s a shock to their system - being treated with respect, that is. How fucking pathetic. They are so _pathetic._

He stays in Mabon’s mind during their trek home. They lied, a bit; their “house” is in a mobile home park about three miles away from school, so it does take a while to get home. The thought of having Devin’s parents drive them, however, was just too intimidating, too terrifying; if Mabon says the wrong thing, if Mabon slips up and falters and implies that there’s something unsavory waiting for them at home—

Well. It all circles back to the phrase _if their parents find out…_

They can’t do this anymore. They cannot continue to live in fear.

It’s a bad idea, but Mabon takes their time. It may prolong the punishment - whatever the punishment is - but they want to enjoy their walk home, feel the warmth of the sun as it sets upon them and darkens the sky. It feels like they’re procrastinating a death sentence, which is ridiculous; it’s never _that_ bad, their father has never been _that_ violent, but as they walk they twirl in circles - sometimes life _can_ be beautiful, if you look beyond the horror. Sometimes people can be good. Nature is inherently in a state of neutrality, and today it has decided to bless Mabon with its elegance. There is good in this world, Devin has proved it, and Mabon can hang on just a little bit longer.

It’s rather embarrassing, how his kindness has changed Mabon’s attitude so significantly. Mabon has never had a friend, doesn’t know what the experience is like - but life _changes_ so quickly, life is unpredictable and constantly fluid, and things are getting better, things _will_ get better. They have to; there is nowhere to go but up.

Four years.

They can leave in four years.

They just have to make it to 2015, and then they can leave.

——

Mabon grasps the door handle, unlocks it, slow; this is it, they have no idea what is waiting for them on the other side of this door, they only know that it’s going to _hurt._ Whatever happens, Mabon is going to ache - the question lies in whether it will be a physical or emotional ache. This is _it._ This day has been so long…

(What happened to ‘things are getting better, things _will_ get better’?)

(What _happened_ was the hitting force of reality.)

(Maybe one day things will get better. Mabon has a friend, now, so - things _are_ better, but the reality, the foundation of it all is that Mabon will not be content for a very long time.)

They open the door—

They open the door to find Gerald Archer on the floor. He’s not moving—

Oh. Oh, _God._ Is he—

Mabon is, again, not this lucky. He’s not dead; they place two fingers on his neck, he’s just unconscious. They look around - there are several bottles of beer on the floor next to him. Two of them are smashed. They’re all empty, except one that seems to have been knocked over. He probably just… drunkenly tripped over it and got knocked out when he hit the ground. Idiot.

“Dad?”

Great. He’s not waking up.

Mabon briefly considers calling 911. It’s ridiculous. They can’t pay for an ambulance, and they want their father _dead,_ not saved. 

They want their father dead.

It’s a hard sentence to process. It’s a hard thing to admit. Life would be so much _easier_ if he was dead, that’s all; they wouldn’t live in (as much) fear, they could focus on living rather than just making it through the day. Experiencing instead of surviving. The thing is that Mabon _knows_ life can be good, for other people. People who have been dealt a better hand by God. It’s just not something _they_ will ever have. It is as if their life was destined to be this way, some sick divine punishment for something they did in a past life.

And they want their father dead.

They have always wanted their father to die.

The realization makes Mabon scrub at their skin on instinct, the mind trying to wash the sin of it away, scrape away the truth of what the sentence means: that Mabon is a bad person, a terrible excuse for a human being, exactly what their mother has always said. Good people don’t wish that other people were dead, but it’s been a very long time since Mabon has known a good person.

  
  


They’ve always thought of themselves as some sort of victim, but in reality: Mabon is just as bad as their father is. They would never hurt him back, but they want him to die. It’s disgusting. Mabon is disgusting. Mabon is _sick,_ has always been sick and diseased. It shows in every part of their mind, it is evident in everything that they do, striking with every thought that passes. It is clear that Mabon is a bad person, and Devin - they don’t _deserve_ him. They don’t deserve friends, they don’t deserve kindness.

Oh. Mabon’s face is wet. They’ve been crying.

They’ve been crying, and their father’s eyes are open. When did they open?

“You’re home,” he says, audibly weak, audibly strained; he sounds injured, but Mabon cannot find a way to care, how _horrible—_

_“_ Yeah. Hi.”

It takes several minutes of fumbling and rustling before he can find a way to stand up, and when he does his demeanor is unsteady; he nearly falls over as he approaches Mabon, approaches Mabon, _approaches Mabon—_

“So,” he says. “Do you wanna tell me why you got detention, or should I guess? I can come up with a few ideas.”

“It’s really not a big deal, he just… overreacted.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. What happened?”

“At lunch, I….”

They can’t get the words out. They can’t. It’s ridiculous; it truly _wasn’t_ a big deal, and stalling will only make Mabon look more guilty, but they’re choking on the phrase - _they told Devin about it, what’s different now?_ Everything. Everything is different now. There are _consequences_ now. _Detention was a consequence._ Everything has consequences.

The internal arguing is endless, but eventually Mabon notices their father’s teeth clenching, and forces it out:

“I tried to bribe a kid to let me cut in the lunch line. Really, that’s all.”

His face relaxes—

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

He pauses. Opens his mouth a few times, closes it, tries to find the right words. “If you’re lying…”

“I swear, I’m not.”

He shrugs and walks into the kitchen, retrieves a beer from the refrigerator. He removes the cap, and chugs it down for - Mabon counts in their mind - _thirty three seconds_ straight, with no rest, then slams it down onto the counter; half of it is gone, and some of it sloshes out on impact.

“This is so stupid. I guess I should ask - why? Why did you try to bribe someone into letting you cut in front of them? And where the _hell_ did you get money?”

Oh. Mabon forgot about that; they’re not supposed to have any money. They’ve saved up around five hundred dollars over the years through various means, but their father doesn’t know - they keep some of it in a hidden compartment they sewed into the inside floor of their backpack, in case of emergencies, and some of it inside of a hole that was once punched into their bedroom wall. If he knew, he’d confiscate it, and Mabon’s only safety net would vanish.

So they lie, further cementing the abhorrent parts of their personality. 

“I won ten bucks in a dumb bet at school. It’s nothing. I spent it all on the vending machine.”

“How could you be so stupid?” he asks, words slurring and blending. “And so close to the anniversary of your sister’s death? _Really?_ You _wanted_ to cause me problems, didn’t you?”

Oh. It’s the anniversary of Ostara’s death, in a few weeks.

Mabon knew that, but every year that has passed since she was found has felt too surreal, too nightmarish to be real. Ostara was five years old. She was _five years old._ She didn’t deserve it; it should have been Mabon they kidnapped, it should have been Mabon - murdered for trying to escape, Mabon would take their sister’s place in death instantly if it meant Ostara would live again, get a second chance at the life stolen from her.

But part of them - a sick, horrible, demented aspect of their mind - also thinks: _she got out. She escaped. If she was alive, they’d treat her like they treat me._

_Maybe it’s better this way._

Mabon freezes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”

“Of course you didn’t.” He places a hand on his forehead. “Just - get out of my sight.”

They still can’t move, paralyzed by a chemical mixture of shock and fear. He didn’t - it wasn’t—

It wasn’t what Mabon expected, it wasn’t that _bad._ What if they’re making it all up? What if their father is a good person, and Mabon is the bad one? What if Mabon deserves everything? Every bad experience they’ve ever had, every bruise and cut. What if they deserve it? What if it’s a divine punishment, because they are inherently bad, engraved with an inescapable horror? What if—

“ _Go._ ”

  
And Mabon goes. They run. They keep running, back into their bedroom, sinking face-down onto their uncovered mattress. It’s disgusting. They are _disgusting._


	5. interlude

_1900._

Vul faces the man - Niles Caulder - and adopts a vicious stance. He breathes in - out - incinerates a nearby tree, _oops._ “You hurt my mother,” he hisses, more fire. Niles holds two hands up, _surrender._

“I did not.”

“You made her leave.”  
  


He smiles at Vul, but it is a smile drenched in pity, lacking sincerity; he _pities_ Vul, and Vul doesn’t know if he should be grateful or cautious. He cannot trust this man. He _can’t._

“Vul,” he says, lowering his hands slowly, “your mother brought you here to keep you safe. I’m here to take you to safety.”

“No. No way. I’m not leaving without her.”

“I’m sorry. I really am, but that’s not going to be possible. Your mother is safe, I promise, but we… were only able to take one of you. It had to be you.”

“What do you mean?”

Niles looks away. “I work for an organization called the Bureau of Oddities. We… are interested in individuals such as yourself. We know that there are bad men that are hunting you, and we want to provide a safe place to rest, if you’ll allow us to study you.”

“Study me? Are you insane?”

“We’ve never seen anything like you before. I promise, we won’t hurt you, we just want to understand you. It will be a mutually beneficial relationship. I can assure you of that.”

“No.”

He begins to approach Vul, careful, like he’s _scared,_ like Vul is an unpredictable, violent creature instead of a terrified one. “Vul, do you think you have any other option?”

Vul considers it, thinks about the ache, the developing wound inside of him that knows he will never see his mother again. She is gone, she’s _gone,_ and he has Niles Caulder, who he cannot trust, but Niles is correct: he doesn’t have any other option. He can escape to his likely death, to become a trophy for the hunters’ walls, or he can accompany Niles to the Bureau of Oddities, whatever that is, to be - who _knows_ what they’ll do to him - but purportedly safe. It’s a lose-lose situation, but the better option is clear.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I was told that you can change your form.”

“If I try hard enough, I can, yeah.”

“Do you think you can become like me?”

—

Three hours.

Niles Caulder says that it is three hours before Vul can manage a form that looks even _vaguely_ humanoid, but it feels like longer than that; time is just too different when you’re alone, time feels eternal when you’re alone, Vul’s life eternal and he mises his family with every moment that passes, every second that ticks by. He is gone now - he is something else now. He stands on two legs, has two arms that rest on his side; Niles groans when he sees them, says that they are “too long” and that his form “looks unnatural” but they can work on it. Niles gives him “clothing”, which is difficult and restricting, and then escorts him to what he calls a “train”, which will take them to their destination.

He sits down. Around him are other humans, some engaged in conversation, some reading books and ignoring one another, some asleep. Niles is writing in a leather journal, and Vul is alone again - no one can see him, no one will truly ever _care._ He is alone in this world, entirely. Niles Caulder only cares because he is benefiting - there is no real comfort here.

Life is interesting. It can change so quickly; one moment you are running and the next you have been abandoned, one moment you have people who love you unconditionally - one moment you have someone who prioritizes you, who adores you - and the next you are trapped, being transported by a stranger who has forced you into humanity. 

He thinks back to their meeting. _That’s not going to be possible. Your mother is safe, but…_

How does he know that? How could he possibly know that, if he let her go? He just - he _let her go._ Vul is not particularly young; he is so _close_ to adulthood, reaching and grasping at maturity with every day that passes, but he is young enough to be unaware of what survival should be like when you are on your own. He doesn’t know how to make it on his own, but he is alone now, so he needs to figure it out _fast._ What happens after the Bureau of Oddities decides that they are done with him? What happens then?

His eyes are watering, leaking. That’s strange. His human face is trembling, his human lips quivering; it’s hitting him, now, his mother is never coming back. He will never see his mother again. She’s never coming back. She’s never coming back. She’s _never coming back,_ and Vul will never know her fate. She could be dead now, cut up somewhere by the evil beings. Dragons are the most desired kills among the hunters who know of their existence, he knows this, he’s known this for years. 

There is a very good chance that she isn’t going to make it. It is the most probable end to this story. 

He has to make his mother proud.

He has to make his mother _proud._ Vul has to be the best version of himself, everything that his mother would want him to be, kind and brave - he has to be _brave,_ he has to face his fears. He is alone now, but he can survive. He has been afflicted with a newly discovered bravery, born out of an ash. The ashes: accepting his new identity as singular, his new lifestyle of self-sufficiency.

  
He can _do_ this. Vul Kane is _capable._


	6. we are stranger than earth

They stare down at Devin’s drawing, eyes moving back-and-forth over the phone number. Gerald has never checked their texts before, and if he did, he wouldn’t care about Mabon’s friends. He doesn’t care about anything that they do, he never has…

Why is Mabon so anxious? Why can’t they just text him?

He _wants_ Mabon to text him. He wouldn’t have given them his number if he didn’t. He was so kind—

_Oh._

That’s it.

Mabon is afraid.

Mabon is always afraid; this time, however, it is because they know the truth, and the truth is that Devin’s interest will desist when he gets further acquainted with them. Mabon is not worthy of friendship; they are a horrible person, this has been established, and Devin is going to see that eventually. They would only hurt him, and Mabon cannot handle the thought of hurting someone again - _especially_ the only person that has shown them kindness.

But he was the only person that has shown them kindness.

This is where the dilemma begins: Mabon has never had a friend before, they have never been _this_ happy, and it’s all because of him. They _want_ the connection, a desperate crave for friendship - for an escape - someone who will pity them, someone who will try to understand. They _want_ to text Devin.

They also don’t want to hurt him, and hurting is in their nature, hurting is inherent. If they say the wrong thing, perform the wrong action, they could lose him, and then they would be alone again; is it worth the risk? Is it really worth the risk?

Mabon doesn’t know how to be a person. They have never known how to be a person. Personhood is a fleeting concept, anyways, something subjective and unique to the mind, but Mabon imagines that personhood looks like freedom. Personhood looks like this: freedom from pain, freedom from trauma, freedom from everything that Mabon faces in their life currently. Personhood looks like _enjoying_ life, personhood looks like wanting to be alive, personhood looks like the combination of surviving and experiencing that Mabon has always desired. Most of all, Mabon thinks, personhood looks like other people. Having friends, going out with friends —

Personhood looks like everything that Mabon doesn’t have. Personhood looks like everything Mabon will _never_ have.

They press his phone number into their phone, fingers moving shakily over the keys on the screen. 5…. 1…. 3…. 

…

…

…

…

They can’t do this. They aren’t brave enough, they will never reach the status of brave. Mabon isn’t _worthy_ of him. How could anyone ever be interested in someone - some _thing -_ like Mabon Archer? They don’t deserve it. They are not capable of good.

They hold the _delete_ button down, watch the number disappear from the screen. It’s too late to text him, anyway. It’s time to rest. It’s time to _rest._ Mabon can never rest, but maybe they can sleep peacefully.

Maybe.

—

Mabon does not dream often.

If they do, they rarely remember their dreams. They like to think that they shut it out on purpose; dreams can only be two things, good and bad. Fantasies and nightmares. Both of those options are terrifying.

Mabon’s fantasies will never become reality. What does Mabon fantasize about? What _doesn’t_ Mabon fantasize about? Loving parents. A family that would attend their f irst soccer game, if they played soccer. A mother that knows how to say _I love you._ A father that is kind. A sister that is alive. 

An escape route that leads them into a better life, a life where they have a chosen family, a collective of people that care for them. Friends, who do not elicit pain. An unreachable life.

They also fantasize about material things: plentiful food, new clothing. A big, vast house that they can live in comfortably, as opposed to the constricting mobile home they currently reside in. Mabon thinks often about what they would look like, if they could change their appearance: colorful, short hair, warm jackets and black boots, everything you’d see in a Hot Topic advertisement. They dream of being themselves, they dream of having control over their body, but it is an unrealistic dream…

Mabon’s nightmares, on the other hand, are more frequent, the only form of dreaming they are _truly_ acquainted with. Mabon and nightmares know each other intimately. 

Their mind’s idea of nightmares seems to be a world where the abuse is worse. Their nightmares consist of being held down, wrists pinned various places - beds, walls, everywhere - and _screaming,_ wailing, shrill, _stop_ and a hand over their mouth—

It feels real, too. It always feels real, too vivid, like a memory Mabon’s mind has repressed for too long, aching to break through the mental barrier. 

They block it out from their mind, when they wake up. Blasting music, television, anything. They can’t think about it. They _can’t_ think about it. If they think about it—

If they think about it, the nightmares persist. So they don’t think about it. Simple.

This time Mabon’s nightmares are a little bit different. 

_This time_ Mabon is above the Earth, resting in space, alone and content. This is the only time they have ever felt content, and it isn’t true, is fabricated, but _oh,_ it _feels_ real, Mabon can _feel_ the peace within them. It is a tingly, electric feeling. It is everything that they have ever desired, every emotion that they have yearned to experience. They look down at the planet beneath them. Everything seems so insignificant now.

  
  


Everything seems so _surreal_ now. It is simultaneously surreal, and vivid. Their father is below, on the planet somewhere, but Mabon is free. Mabon is finally _free._ He cannot hurt them ever again.

Mabon also, inexplicably, feels powerful.

Like they could incinerate anyone who tries to harm them. They are Above humanity, in every sense of the phrase. They are placed above humanity, and they have evolved beyond the concept of being human. Mabon is capable of anything, now, can accomplish their dreams. They can stop the hurt. They can save themselves, and they can save the others - the other people suffering from the effects of trauma, the other people with families like Mabon’s. They can fix everything, and they have everything in the palm of their hand.

The power that was stolen from them has been restored. 

Mabon thinks about revenge.

They genuinely consider it, and for too long; images of their father enter their mind, and he is dead on the floor of their classroom, _truly_ dead, lifeless and immobile. He cannot hurt them ever again. The next image flashes: their father surrounded by blue electricity, pinned against the wall by it, and it floods into his chest, sparking. He falls to the floor, once again lifeless, once again pale and cold. The electricity slaughtered him, and Mabon, in this dream, feels—

Mabon feels—

Mabon _feels._

Mabon feels sick.

He deserves it, but Mabon cannot bring themselves to actualize their fantasies; revenge would be warranted, but the aftermath would be awful. Where would Mabon go, if their parents were dead? Where would they live? How would they support themselves? How would they cope, knowing that their only family joined their sister in death because of them? 

Mabon is not a murderer. Even in this dream - this holy dream - Mabon is not strong.

Mabon is weak.

They remain above the Earth for what feels like days, in this dream. How is this a nightmare? How could this be a nightmare? Mabon is dreaming of freedom, Mabon is capable. They expected a nightmare. They always expect nightmares, but this - _this_ is nothing like any dream they’ve ever had. It restores their hope.

Hope is a dangerous thing to have in this world. They know that, they have always known that, but in this dream, in this fictionalized world, they can have a better life. Humanity can be beautiful, as a whole. When you see the entirety of it as opposed to facing isolation. People fall in love, people are kind, people try to make the world a better place. 

They _hope._ People have hope.

Hope is dangerous, but it is _beautiful._ Endearing. It can be a changing force, it can manifest. Mabon isn’t sure how they know that it can manifest changes - but it can, it is natural.

They are going to be okay. It might take several years, but everything will get better when the universe decides that Mabon is ready.

But there’s something approaching them. They hadn’t noticed it before, but it’s rising from the atmosphere of Earth - some kind of primitive-looking shuttlecraft, and it’s flying _fast_ towards Mabon, increasing pace with every second.

Until it stops.

It just - _stops._

And — and Mabon cannot control their own body, cannot stop themselves from moving _closer —_ closer — _closer_ to the plane. They can see someone inside of it; they don’t recognize him, a man - early, mid thirties? - with dark hair. He’s moving towards Mabon -- or Mabon is moving towards him — until finally their faces meet and Mabon is staring into his eyes. They can see a deep fear, a fragility, beyond them, and they’re not sure _why_ or _how_ they can see it, but it is blatant. The inside of this man’s mind is wrapped entirely in terror.

They keep moving. They are so _close,_ now, and - oh - Mabon is within him now, that’s the only explanation, they move closer and Mabon moves through his body, passes in. There is darkness, only darkness, and then there is a light, bright and pulsing and - fire. It’s fire. Mabon can only see fire. Their limbs are burning, screaming with pain as they disintegrate. It’s a nightmare, now. It’s unbearable. They can _feel_ the pain, even in this dream, they can feel their body suffer under the heat. Mabon has known pain, but - not like this.

Their eyes flutter open, the darkness fades. There’s another man - many men, riding towards them, but——

  
  


Mabon convulses in their bed, and it’s back - _oh,_ they realize, it is the darkness of their bedroom in the night. They’re awake now, in the waking world, alive. They are _alive,_ against their own wishes. Mabon reaches over to turn the light on - their skin is intact, flesh that hasn’t been charred, but they can still feel the residue of the pain they felt in the dream. It’s 4:00 in the morning.

Their peace has been stolen from them. The peace they experienced, being above the Earth, has been ripped away.

  
Mabon should have expected this. They should have _known_ that it would be like this. They will _never_ be rewarded serenity.


	7. your albatross (let it go)

The next day is insufferable. School is always insufferable, but today it is particularly so; two substitute teachers, one difficult math test. Mr. Anderson is being especially cruel today, still smiling his threatening smile. He stares at Mabon and just doesn’t stop _smiling._ It is more than unsettling. It’s horrific. Anderson is horrific, and Mabon is suffering, and today is intolerable.

Logically, Mabon knows that getting detention doesn’t make them a bad person, and that none of the other students are aware of what happened. It still feels awful, they still feel awful, and they cannot seem to cope with the knowledge; it is just the beginning of Mabon’s insides - the _true_ disgusting, disgusting inner thoughts - showing in their actions. Soon, they will tarnish everything about them that is external. Their internal ugliness will become external disgust, and then - and _then_ everyone will know.

They need to prepare themselves. It is inevitable.

Mabon barely makes it through biology. While their teacher goes on about adenosine triphosphate, they can only think about the dream they had last night. Mabon tries to focus. Mabon _tries,_ attempts to divert their attention from the past into the present, but biology is difficult and daydreaming is a natural instinct. They are daydreaming, imagining themselves above the planet again.

It felt scattered. In the dream, their body felt scattered, and in reality - as they live right now, as the world turns - their body feels fluid, as if it is on the path to melting at this table, seeping down onto the floor, expanding to suffocate. Mabon’s body stripped of its status as a wound, transforming into something stronger. The distress fades away.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if all their distress could fade away? If they could float above the Earth, untouched for the rest of eternity?

  
  


Mabon’s eyes close, light, as they imagine it, immerse themselves in this world where they are safe. And then they hear it:

“K—”

The sound of their birth name, their legal name, the name that isn’t theirs. It is a harsh, scratching noise. He’s too close. Mabon interrupts Anderson before he can finish the word. “What’s up?”

“‘What’s up?’ What’s _up_ is that you aren’t paying attention. Do we need to have a repeat of yesterday? You’re already failing this class, Archer, but you don’t seem to care.”

Mabon is entirely sure that it’s against the code of conduct or whatever to reveal a student’s grade loudly in front of a class, but it doesn’t matter; no one here cares. Mabon could report him for doing this, and it would be ignored. They know how it goes.

Unfortunately, the _rest_ of the class seems to care.

Mabon can hear them whisper and giggle to themselves, hungry for any chance to find a new victim. They have never noticed Mabon, but now they have, and once they get their taste they become insatiable. The voices and laughs grow louder; Anderson can hear it, they know he can hear it, but he’s smiling again. It’s sick. He gets his happiness from watching others suffer. It’s _sick._

Mabon, on impulse, runs. 

It is a ridiculous decision. It will deepen the trouble that they are already in, but Mabon rules over the realm of bad decisions. They _run._ Mabon is so adept at running; it is their only true skill. Mabon only knows how to run, they know nothing else. They run - past the students, out the classroom door, into the hallway and outside of the building, where they sink down onto the ground, slowly falling, slowly, _slowly._

Mabon buries their head in their knees. They can feel drops of rain trickle over them, and they can feel the tears poking at their eyes, breaking free, bleeding through. They will get detention again for this. They know they will, they _know,_ but it’s too late now, it’s just too late.

Oh. Their father will _not_ handle this well. Getting detention once is one thing, but getting detention two days in a row is not acceptable. They may have escaped punishment yesterday, but it is imminent now.

  
  


Thinking about what waits for them beyond the walls of their home… only makes the tears fall harder, only blinds them. Mabon’s eyes sting, overpowering, their entire being crying out. Why hasn’t someone noticed? Why isn’t there someone who cares? There are good people in the world. There _are._ Why can’t Mabon find one? Why can’t Mabon find someone that wants to help them? Why can’t they find a savior?

Why—

Saviors don’t exist. There are no saviors, but—

Something touches Mabon’s shoulder, and they jump; their head shoots up and hits the wall behind them. It is dream-painful, it feels like burning.

“Hey, whoa, you okay?”

Their vision blurs for a moment, but when it focuses - _oh._ When it focuses, Devin is in front of them, sitting cross-legged. His face says _concern,_ his voice calm - the kind of calmness that one would display when comforting a wounded animal. It’s not a false comparison; they have all the attributes of a wounded animal. Confusion - fear - wounds scattered across the body - and an animalistic mind, fueled by instinct.

“Yeah, I - I think so.” Mabon rubs their forehead, and then the realization hits. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

“Teacher sent me to the nurse. I was on my way when I found you.”

Mabon cannot stop the worry. “Why did she send you? What happened?”

Devin looks away. He folds his arms over his chest; his body language radiates shame. “Oh, uh… I… accidentally cut my hand with a scalpel during my last class. Dissection is awful. I tried to hide it, but it kept bleeding like crazy.”

“I’m so sorry. You should go, I’m fine.”

“Bullshit,” Devin says, laughing, and he meets their eyes. Immediately, the stinging goes away. “You’ve been crying. So hard I could hear it from another building. What’s wrong?”

Mabon exhales. “Mr. Anderson was being a dick to me, and everyone heard and started laughing.” A pause. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

“It’s a big deal if it upset you.”

  
  


Mabon stops, their body freezes, their entire existence _pauses;_ no one has ever done this, no one has _ever_ validated them. For fourteen years their feelings have been voided, rendered ridiculous - horrible - disgusting. Mabon has never been _allowed_ to feel. Emotions are never accepted in their home. If Mabon expresses anything - _anything —_

Mabon stopped expressing a very long time ago. They have learned their lesson. They are used to hiding, they are too familiar with repression. Devin, however, is melting all of that - shattering everything that Mabon knows. They don’t have to hide anything around him. They don’t need to be afraid. Mabon is so afraid. Mabon is so sick.

They can feel their body relax. It feels like the dream—

“Thanks,” they say, the words finally managing to escape their mind. “I — thanks.”

“Why are you thanking me?”

Oh. Mabon forgot that it isn’t normal to react to kindness as if it’s foreign.

“I don’t know. I’m not really used to the whole… people being nice to me thing.”

The concern in his expression deepens. He’s _worried._ “What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ that people aren’t usually nice to me.” _Oh. That sounds wrong._ “I probably sound like I’m begging for attention. I don’t mean it that way… I’m sorry.”

“You don’t sound like that at all.” 

Devin rises, holds out his hand. It takes Mabon entirely too long to process the idea that he wants Mabon to take it. Devin wants Mabon to _hold his hand,_ to touch. Touch is also foreign. Mabon feels - Mabon feels - Mabon feels a cliche flutter within.

No. Oh, God. _No._

The realization is unbearable. 

Mabon cannot have feelings for this boy. It cannot be allowed. Mabon has never had a crush, but they also have never met anyone kind. They have never known kindness, but this is a downfall, this is unacceptable, and it all fades back into the fact that Mabon only knows how to ruin.

Even if a miracle occurs and Devin reciprocates, Mabon will only cause him pain. It isn’t desirable. Mabon’s only desire is freedom. Mabon’s only desire is to stop being a weapon.

  
  


They take his hand anyway. They touch him regardless. It is an innocent touch, fleeting as he helps Mabon onto their feet; he pulls away afterwards. That’s okay - Mabon didn’t expect him to continue the contact, Mabon didn’t _want_ him to continue the contact.

“Wanna go to the nurse with me?”

“I don’t know…”

“Unlike basically everyone else at this school, she’s actually nice. She’ll totally understand what you’re going through.”

Mabon can’t grasp the concept of someone _understanding._ No one has ever tried to understand - no one has talked to them, no one has asked them if they’re okay. They have been alone for their entire life, barring Ostara—

They can’t think about that. They _can’t._ Not now. Not after this breakdown.

Mabon doesn’t know what understanding is like. What does understanding look like? External, internal, every cell - the meat of understanding and its pattern. What does understanding feel like? Mabon imagines that understanding feels like the same kind of serenity and comfort they feel around Devin. Mabon imagines that understanding feels like freedom, their only desire, their _only_ need. Understanding feels like breaking away, like floating above the Earth in a dream state, like finally discovering peace in the real world. Peace in reality, not in dreams. Peace in both dreams _and_ reality. Is it tangible?

Is anything ever tangible?

Mabon needs one person, needs only _one_ adult to listen. But—

What happens if they find out? What is the outcome there? They reveal their secret, child protective services find their parents, and they’re taken away, stolen out of their own life. Mabon is transplanted into foster care, and only _God_ knows what happens in foster care. They have heard the horror stories, they _know_ their fate. It’s terrifying, everything is always terrifying, and this is when Mabon realizes that they have no hope. They knew it before, but now they _understand_ it. Now they have processed it fully. They will never get away.

Their childhood was ripped out of them. They are fourteen years old - _fourteen,_ a child, still so young, but lacking the innocence. Mabon should have had a better childhood. They never had a childhood. Mabon should be texting their friends and getting angry because their father won’t take them to the mall - _not_ wailing in pain because they’ve been hit, _not_ buying makeup to cover up bruises. They should be beaming and flustered around their crush, _not_ terrified of their own emotions. They should be allowed to feel emotion. Their life should be better.

Do they _deserve_ a better life?

Mabon cannot save their mind. They know it is unrealistic, but they still entertain the idea of having an adult they can _trust,_ someone kind, someone who can care for them. 

So: “Okay. Sounds good.”

Devin smiles - a pure and genuine smile - and they walk, together. Alone.


	8. prove to me (i'm not gonna die alone)

Mabon has never been to the nurse’s office, partially due to the fact that it is their first year at this school, and partially due to the fact that they have always been too terrified to voice their needs. There are numerous times that Mabon should have been sent here, but no one _notices,_ no one ever notices, and Mabon’s fear bleeds too deep; they are incapable of revealing their issues, thinking that it will brand them _weak_ in the eyes of everyone else.

But the nurse looks kind. She stands somehow shorter than Mabon, and her smile is entirely unlike Anderson’s; it is soft, it is warm, it speaks in words rushing into Mabon’s mind and it says: 

_I care. I care about you. I_ **_truly_ ** _am here to heal._

Mabon feels sick - sick - _sick._ For some unknown reason, for some s i ck reason, Mabon feels awful. They can’t trust caring, cannot bring themselves to completely believe her smile. In their body they feel comfort, but their mind knows better. Their mind will always overcome.

Devin approaches her, shoves Mabon in front of her, _touch again._

“Hey.”

She focuses her attention entirely on him. “You again?” Laughter, pure laughter. “I told you to stop getting in trouble. What’s up?”

“I cut my hand with a scalpel.” He says it like he’s almost _proud._

“Well, why would you do that? Let me see.”

She reaches for his hand - the blood has dried, but there’s a significant amount, a _terrifying_ amount - but he retracts it. “First,” Devin says, “I want you to meet someone.”

“Oh, of course. Who’s your friend here?”

It’s several seconds of silence before Mabon realizes it’s their turn to speak. “Oh, I’m… I’m Mabon.”

“Nice to meet you, Mabon.”

“Mabon kinda had a panic attack in class. I was wondering if you could keep--um--them here for a while so they can calm down.”  
  


 _Them._ Mabon freezes again. Mabon is so tired of freezing, Mabon is so _tired._ Does he know? How does he know? Does he know the truth, does he _know_ that Mabon isn’t the precious girl everyone wants them to be? Is it that obvious?

But the nurse doesn’t seem to notice. “Of course, darling.”

“Thank you.” 

On Devin’s face: relief, immense relief. A look of relief that Mabon is too familiar with. They shiver, they shiver, they _freeze._

“Now, let’s see that hand.”

He gives the nurse his hand, his eyes tightening shut, a groan escaping from his throat - oh, he’s in pain, he’s in _pain._ Mabon feels horrible as the nurse examines it. He’s in pain because of them. He delayed treatment - even for a moment - because of _them._

Devin did it freely. Devin did it because he wanted to, because he _cares._ There is nothing more frightening than realizing someone cares about you. They know that it is an abnormal line of thought, but they just - it’s just - it’s horrific. They have never had this before, and it could fade at any moment.

Why can’t Mabon just enjoy the present? Why must they always think of the future? They can feel a pit forming within them; they fall into it, they always fall into it, and the falling is endless, the falling presses needles into their skin and whispers _you will never_

_get_

_out_

_but_

Devin is looking at them, oh, he’s _gazing._ He’s beautiful, and - and - and _oh -_ he’s winking at Mabon. It is a brief, fleeting movement, and it takes Mabon too long to parse it. Devin - this beautiful boy - is winking at them, is _kind_ to them. Every gesture he makes is kind.

He cannot be real. Mabon begins to question their sanity, feels the sickness rise again. They are stuck in yesterday’s detention, still asleep, and Devin doesn’t exist, Devin is just a product of Mabon’s imagination, Devin is Mabon’s fantasy and escape. They don’t deserve him. They are not lucky enough - not deserving enough - not good enough - to have this. Their mind has a habit of moving faintly between realities, always vivid, always _too_ real. This boy cannot be real. This boy is false, a projection, a hallucination - he is _nothing,_ he is too good to be true.

Mabon is not deserving. This has been established, this is the one, universal truth that lies in all of existence.

“It’s very shallow,” the nurse says. “It doesn’t need stitches, but it seems to be causing you a lot of pain. I’ll patch you up and get you some tylenol, okay? Be right back. And if you need to go home, just let me know.”

She walks away, back behind a bright pink curtain, and leaves Mabon alone, leaves Devin alone, leaves them alone - together. 

It’s awkward. Mabon can’t say anything; it’s as if their tongue has been torn out, as if there is something strangling them, a hand made of electricity, a cord, a rope, _something_ to stop them from breathing or speaking or _feeling._ This is a familiar feeling, but it’s never been this bad. 

Finally: “I know,” he says, carefully, words quiet, “that you’re scared.”

“Scared?” Mabon asks. They sound scared, they can recognize the terror in their own voice. “I’m not scared.”

“Okay. If you’re not scared, why did I find you crying your eyes out in the middle of the rain?” 

“I—”

“It’s okay, Mabon.” He lowers his voice even further. “Whatever’s going on, I’m here for you. Most people at this school are total assholes, but I’m not.” A pause. “Well. I’m not an asshole to people who are nice, anyway.”

  
  


He thinks Mabon is _nice._ He doesn’t know the truth. If he knew the _truth…_

“Th—thanks.”

A moment filled to overflow with silence. Mabon shivers. Mabon _shivers._ And then:

“Hey, I had hoped you would’ve texted me last night.”

What are they supposed to say? _I didn’t text you because I’m afraid of hurting you. I hurt everyone I care about. I didn’t text you because you were right - I am scared. I’m terrified. I have never known anything but an everlasting fear and hypervigilance. Please save me. Don’t save me; I don’t deserve it._

Instead: “Uh,” Mabon says. “I forgot. Sorry.”

He looks at them suspiciously, like he doesn’t believe it, like he _knows_ that there is something more—

and then his eyes widen, like he has absorbed new knowledge, and he shrugs. “It’s cool. Just don’t forget today, okay?” He—

He—

He _winks._ At Mabon, and oh, _oh,_ Mabon is gone, entirely lost, drowning, for this boy that they have only just met. He winks at them and it is like melting, like incinerating, like burning. Like being above a planet, holy, and burning. Falling into fire; Devin _has_ them, and they belong, and they can forget about the pain for one moment, for one moment, for one singular moment.

“Okay,” Mabon says. “Okay.”


	9. for the fear of silent nights

Mabon doesn’t get detention. Thank God.

….

….

….

When they get home, though - _that_ is an entirely different story.

Caught up in fantasy (Devin) (Devin’s wink) (Devin’s eyes) (Devin’s _touch_ ), they had forgotten that their father was… their father. Meaning: they were distracted, and forgot that their father is bitter and sick and violent, and now they will pay the price. _Now -_

Mabon walks through the door.

Their father is sober, this time. He sits on the kitchen counter; when he gets up, approaches Mabon, it is revealed: the knuckles of his right hand are covered in dried blood and scabs. It elicits an electric panic, a deeper unholy fear. This will not end well. It never ends well. They look around the room; there is a caved-in hole in the wall, fist sized, right next to their bedroom door.

They feel nauseous, which is new. Mabon should be used to it by now.

“Hi, honey,” he says, false warmth. Gerald Archer rests his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “How was school?”

It is a trick question. Mabon knows that it is a trick question. So: “It was okay, I guess,” they say, forcing all emotion down to bleed the words into a monotone, robotic presence. “Not bad. Not great.”

“ _Really?_ ” He asks. _Chuckles,_ like the laughter of a cartoon villain. “I heard differently.”

Mabon swallows. “What did you hear?”

“I heard you left class and didn’t come back.”

Fuck. 

“Dad,” they say, almost whispering, voice frail-low, _panic,_ “I can explain.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he says. “I don’t want to _hear_ it.” 

When he grabs their arm and _twists—-_

the p a i n —

they close their eyes, and imagine flying again. Above the Earth. Their father’s importance fading. They’re pushed, violently, into their bedroom door—- _flying flying flying—-ascension—--holiness—-_

  
  


_TWO WEEKS LATER_

  
  
  
  
  


“Hey,” Devin says, tossing them a carrot stick. It lands on the concrete with a sad thud, and he frowns. “Fuck. You were supposed to catch that.”

This part of campus is particularly empty today; their spot was carefully chosen by Devin so that they would have privacy—-it’s always relatively empty—-resting against the gates of the entrance that leads to the school’s staff parking lot—-but today it feels particularly haunting, especially ghastly. The air is freezing, the mess of the sky a dark and morbid gray. 

Mabon pulls the sleeves of their hoodie over their hands. Sits down, next to him but distant; if they brush against him then everything will be Over, and he will Know. Despite knowing Devin for only a few weeks, they have jumped into their void — loving, fearing, loving, loving fear and fearing love. 

And he absolutely cannot know, which is why they have to keep their distance. They are only capable of downfall.

Mabon manages a smile, somehow. “Sorry.”

“You ruined my carrot stick.”

They freeze, as if they have _genuinely_ angered him. Upsetting their only friend is the worst thing imaginable.

Mabon cannot be alone again. It is inevitable, but: they cannot be alone. They’re terrified of it. They have tasted friendship - desire - and it has ruined them, changed them irreparably.

“Hey,” he continues. “I’m just kidding. I have like, ten more. It’s fine.”

“Oh.”

Instead of saying anything further (they roll it over in their mind, again and again, every possible phrase), Mabon shoves a giant bite of pizza into their mouth and doesn’t realize that it’s unattractive until they catch Devin staring, after which they swallow - almost choking.

“Ugh, that was probably so disgusting,” Mabon says, false laughter. “Sorry.”

But all that Devin says is: “Nah, I like people who aren’t afraid to do things like that in public. You’re like…. honest. Most people here aren’t.”

_I like people who…_

The words feel like electricity pulsing through their body. Devin likes them. They knew that, and it doesn’t mean anything - if Devin did not like them, he wouldn’t eat lunch with them every day, would not text them every night - but it still feels like a bolt of lightning, sparks of hope. It’s not romantic, it cannot be romantic; Mabon is unlovable. 

The spark remains.

“You are, too, you know.”

“I don’t think so, but thank you.”

“Oh, come on,” Mabon says, nudging him playfully, _oh, oh, a mistake—-_ “you’re honest! You’re the coolest person ever.”

“Agree to disagree,” he responds, and - and - he tries to nudge Mabon back, but presses his arm against theirs, and it sends real electricity pulsing through their body, genuine pain; the bruises from that night still haven’t entirely healed, and they let out a wail at the contact.

“Mabon? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, I just…”

He leans in, closer. “Where did you get those bruises?”

Mabon shudders. Their arms aren’t showing; how does he know that they have bruises?

“I - don’t really want to talk about it right now.”

This is, evidently, the wrong answer.

“If someone’s hurting you, Mabon, I swear—”

They contemplate, for a moment, telling him.

Mabon confesses the truth about their life and he calls the police and they remove Mabon from their home—-it is, however, useless. They have been here before. They know that the grass is not greener on the other side; everything is dead, always, rotten and beige and barren. There is no escape from the trauma. So:

“ _Devin,_ ” they say, and it’s too loud and too harsh and entirely unlike them. “I’m fine. I swear. I got them because I tripped over my own feet and fell.” They wonder if that’s a convincing lie. “It’s just embarrassing.”

He gives them a suspicious look, but nods. “Okay. Just… you know you can tell me anything.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mabon says. They shove the rest of the pizza in their mouth; this way the conversation ends, this way they don’t have to say anything.


	10. interlude ii

_SOMETIME IN THE EARLY 1900S_

Vul has lost count of the days; it has been a few years, it has also been a few weeks, two days, two years, two weeks, two seconds—-it doesn’t matter, he misses his mother, it doesn’t matter. Every day they violate his body, using the unfortunate and useless claim that it is for the greater good. For _science._ Studying him, running test after test, needles and electrodes and _pain—--_

Why? What can Vul possibly be useful for? Who is he capable of helping? He cannot manage any form beyond a humanoid one, regardless of how many times they push him to adopt something different. He is a sad monstrosity. Dragons are essentially immortal—-incapable of dying of natural causes—-doomed to turn on with the sands of time, to spin with the earth, to remain at the end of every other species, unless their lives are taken—-but Vul, selfishly, wishes for death. Every day he sees Niles Caulder and Niles Caulder takes another tissue sample and Niles Caulder leaves. He is not warm; that facade has melted by now. Every day he sees Niles Caulder and prays that Niles Caulder will kill him.

  
  
  


His mother believed that the Bureau of Oddities would help them. She did everything she could to save her son. He cannot die now—

One day, Niles Caulder does not show up for his daily visit. Instead there is a younger male human, petite and twitchy. He enters Vul’s room, monitors Vul’s vital signs without any eye contact, acts nervous—-like Vul is indeed a monster—-like at any moment Vul could incinerate him.

“Where’s Niles?”

He flinches, freezes. Terror. Finally: “Niles is on some kind of exploratory mission,” he says. “My name is Will. I’ll be taking over for him until he gets back.”

Niles doesn’t come back.

(Days) (weeks) (months) (years) later, a woman in a thin black dress and thick cat-eye glasses enters his room, along with two people of indeterminate gender who look wholly identical; they move unnaturally, stiff and robotic and cold. They grip Vul’s shoulder; it feels crushing, feels painful.

“What’s going on?” he asks. He tries to pull away—- _his mind is screaming, he is burning—-_ but one places a device against his neck, and there’s crackling - _searing_ pain - he roars - he shakes—-

“Change of mission, 719,” the woman says, monotone, flat. “Welcome to the Bureau of Normalcy.”

“My name is Vul, and I thought this was the Bureau of Oddities.”

“That identity is gone, sir. There’s a war going on. Our priorities have changed. Luckily, you seem to be a very useful asset. The reports Dr. Caulder had in your file were formidable.” She waves and the device is removed from his neck. “You’re very powerful, and we can’t let that get out of hand. So it’s time for you to serve your country.”

“Serve my country? What—”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It takes several minutes for his eyes to adjust, when he wakes up. The haziness ends: he’s sitting in a chair, he room is small, the door is locked, this is a _cell, a prison, an entrapment of hatred._

Vul Kane stares at the walls around him and lets himself be consumed by fantasy. These are not true fantasies; in them he is killed, in them the agents have mercy and end his existence, in them he gets his fire back and burns them all, in them a beautiful man comes to save him and they ride out of the ANT Farm together on horseback.

Several decades later, as Vul sleeps, another man who rests on ground of cell 721 will experience the burden of the exact same fantasies.

Captain Larry Trainor yearns, and tears at his own skin for wanting.


End file.
